


Flower Dance

by Harmonic_Wisp



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble Series, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24480067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harmonic_Wisp/pseuds/Harmonic_Wisp
Summary: A collection of short drabbles involving Fleur Delacour and Hermione Granger. Short scenes that come to mind but don't quite fit in any one story.
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger
Comments: 107
Kudos: 268





	1. Thoughts and Kisses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MagicNonCreator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicNonCreator/gifts), [Kamaro0917](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamaro0917/gifts), [StrayPuppy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrayPuppy/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione gets wrapped up in her head, more so when Fleur is around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gift for MagicNonCreator.

There were some specific events that had happened prior to this moment, but if asked to recall any of it, Hermione would have been hard pressed to give any sort of lucrative answer. Which said something about her present state of mind because the prodigious witch had a near eidetic memory at the best of times. No, there was no past to look back on; there were no consequences that required a deep seated rumination for the future. 

There was only Hermione, and the set of impossible azure orbs that had trained themselves upon her. No one should have such vibrant eyes, that drew one in with a single look and held their prey so close that the act could put a lover’s embrace to shame. And that ethereal ability, a siren’s call trapped in the intensity of a gorgon’s gaze was a drop in the bucket for someone like Fleur Delacour. 

A woman beholden to only the restraints of her youth. Her sensuality was both the piper’s innocent song and the claws of the most experienced predator. The dichotomous nature that taunted Hermione’s curious mind, but simultaneously threatened to tear her apart should she attempt to solve the riddle clad in powder blue silks and the airs of a nobility long since vanquished by a practiced guillotine. 

The enigmatic blonde intensified her gaze, as impossible as that seemed prior, and Hermione felt the nerves as they clawed up her throat. They escaped the swarm of butterflies that lined her stomach only to find themselves bottle necked in her esophagus. The petrified lion, no longer an asset to her house in her moment as prey, swallowed in a desperate attempt to get air in her lungs and courage in her heart. Those eyes shifted focus, ever so briefly, to the delicate lines of the younger girl’s throat as she fought for oxygen and cognizance with every gulp. And at that moment, as the mouth that only seemed to be acquainted with the shape of a dissatisfied moue melted into an amused smile, Hermione knew she was done for.

Fleur, not trapped by the same stream of panic and thought that paralyzed her curly haired subject, strode over to the British witch and pressed her further into the wall of the empty corridor they had found themselves coincidentally in. There were hundreds of feet in the long stretch of this one Hogwarts hallway, and Hermione found herself with only scant inches to her name as the impossible woman boxed her in on both sides with lithe yet sculpted arms. In the back of Hermione’s head, a voice whispered just how  _ unfair _ it was that the cool shade of Fleur’s irises could hold such heat. Because at that moment, as the part-Veela trained those azure orbs on her prize, they  _ smoldered _ and it was a miracle that Hermione had not been burned alive by the intensity of the other witch’s scrutiny.

Soft lips tilted downwards and descended so close that the wide eyed intended target could briefly see the previously imperceptible glitter within the perfectly applied layer of gloss. The color that mesmerized her from that very moment they had locked eyes were nearly gone now, in their place were pupils so blown out that Hermione could swear she saw her own panicked orbs reflected back at her. Fleur stopped just mere millimetres away, her lips so close to the Gryffindor’s own that her breaths tickled the sensitive nerves on and around the other’s mouth. 

So close that Hermione couldn’t see the triumphant smile on Fleur’s face, but she could certainly  _ hear _ it when the blonde whispered, “‘Ermione, you  _ think _ too much.”

And then a single decisive motion later and for the first time in as far as Hermione could remember, she stopped thinking at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like previously mentioned, this one's for MagicNonCreator. He threw a prompt at me for a short drabble that described "Hermione's thoughts before the first kiss." It was supposed to be less than 200 words, but er... this kind of got away from me.


	2. Crowd Pleasers (Pokemon AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Hermione wonders how in the hell she got such a ridiculous rival. Fleur just enjoys making the adorable woman blush. The fifty thousand people in the stadium expected a Pokemon battle and got two disasters who couldn't even flirt normally. 
> 
> The Fleurmione Pokemon AU that (almost) no one asked for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> « _As per usual, italicized and within guillemets is dialogue written out in english but intended to be understood as the characters speaking french._ »  
> "Regular ol' English dialogue, or the occasional French phrase slipped."  
>  _'Italicized and inbetween apostrophes is thoughts.'_

_“. . . and here we go folks! The third match of the semi-finals, and have we got a match for you! It’s Kalos’ very own ‘Radiant Goddess of the Stage’ versus the ‘Fireball Professor’ of the Galar region! Who will win and move onto the finals of this exciting tournament? Will it be ‘beauty’ or ‘brains’? I for one cannot wait to. . .”_

Hermione had already begun to tune out the exuberant commentator; that in and of itself was quite the feat when one took into account the prodigious sound system interwoven into the very stadium she stood in. Thankfully the brunette had long since learned to pay no mind to the unnecessary noise. It was why she hadn’t acknowledged the roar of the crowd as she entered the stadium; the thunderous cheers were just another distraction from her goal.

No, her focus was firmly on the other woman stationed on the raised platform opposite to her own. Blonde hair styled to perfection. An outfit that looked more at home on a runway in the middle of one of Unova’s _Fashion Weeks_ than it did in the middle of an arena. That damnable smirk that seemed to set the bookworm off no matter how many times it was thrown at her. All things that Hermione had long since attributed to the annoyance that was _Fleur Delacour_. 

And the woman didn’t even have the decency to take her seriously! The trainer in question was in the midst of making various childish noises and faces as she cooed at the blue and white cloud plumed dragon that floated next to her. 

« _And your feathers are glossed so beautifully! You will dazzle this crowd, will you not? Oh, I cannot wait to show off the routine we have practiced my dear Florian! »_ Fleur then proceeded to nuzzle the Altaria as she continued to sing its praises.

Nevermind the fact that she had a microphone on and the whole stadium could hear her. Hermione could feel the vein throb in her head at the air headedness of her opponent. Seriously, how did this _coordinator_ get to the semi-finals of this tournament?! The agitated brunette planted her hands on the railing of her platform and made full use of her own microphone attached to the lapel of her coat as she yelled out.

“Damn it, Fleur! This isn’t a _contest_ , it’s a _battle!_ ” 

Fleur pulled away from the impossibly soft feathers of her companion and pouted at her studious rival. Hermione fought the blush that threatened to lay siege upon her face with the harsh grind of her molars as she clenched her teeth _hard_. 

“Oh _ma petite flame!_ You are far too serious all the time! Do we not have an audience? Are they not here to be entertained?” Like a true artist of her craft, the coordinator made a wide gesture with her arms towards the crowd and against all odds the masses got _louder_. The device pinned to her collar picked up and carried her melodious voice, _Kalosian_ accent and all, through the din of the congregation and straight to her austere opponent. “Then regardless of what this is, it is still a show!”

The smirk that seemed to taunt Hermione whenever the two met appeared on the blonde’s face, and the studious trainer felt her knuckles go white as she gripped the railing harder. She had to consciously pry her fingers from the guard in front of her as she stepped back and took a breath to steady herself. Hermione pulled out the Pokeball of her beloved partner and pointed it at the flamboyant woman opposite of her. 

“Then be prepared to lose in front of all these people. Because the only show they’re going to get is that of you getting annihilated!” 

Hermione wasn’t a very showy person, but even she thought that her tenacity had shown through in her statement. It was likely that even Ron or Harry would’ve taken a subconscious step back at her show of aggressiveness. 

Except for the fact that her opponent wasn’t either of her two best mates. Instead, it was a trainer with an ego and the confidence to rival Hermione’s bullheadedness and determination. Fleur eyed the agitated woman on the other side of the field and clapped her hands in glee.

“Oh ‘Ermione, you are such a delight to rile up! _Tu est trop mignon pour les mots!”_ Hermione knew she had immediately lost the battle against the unwanted flush at Fleur’s proclamation of the brunette’s supposed ‘cuteness.’ “But make no mistake, I do not intend to lose today, no matter how adorable my opponent may be!” 

Hermione hoped that if she blacked out from embarrassment, the blonde would be penalized for uncalled for torture of her opponent. Unfortunately, the coordinator was far from finished.

“In fact… I propose a bet.” The annoyance that often accompanied any interaction with the ridiculous woman was replaced by a wave of dread at the sight of Fleur’s conspiratory grin.

“What… What kind of bet?” The question escaped her before she could really stop herself. Just what was Fleur up to?

“Yes, a bet. On the outcome of this match. If I win, you have to…” The blonde closed her eyes and tapped the side of her chin in what looked to be thought, but Hermione _knew_ Fleur. For all that the woman seemed daft, there was a reason why she was the top coordinator in Kalos. The entertainer’s skill in premeditation could rival Hermione’s own, after all. 

Almost as if Fleur finally came to a decision and had not just timed her next slew of words for dramatic effect, her eyes had flown open and she pointed at her opponent.

“Go on a date with me!” 

Either the entire stadium had followed suit when Hermione’s jaw had dropped, or her hearing had gone out and left her with white noise. Either way the arena was engulfed in a preternatural silence only born from shock. Hermione had sputtered and gesticulated, though it took a few moments for her to find her voice.

“ _You…_ I… Sod it! _Fleur Delacour, you are an idiot!”_ The Galarian born trainer growled out and did the only thing she _could_ do in this situation. She threw the pokeball out on the field and watched the ball release the magnificent form of her Pyroar. “Crookshanks, get ready!” 

Fleur didn’t even look insulted at the supposed insult to her person as she motioned for the blue dragon beside her to join the fiery lion on the field. “Oh _ma petite flame_ , I am going to woo you and you will not be able to do a thing.” 

The giggle was made worse by the fact that it was amplified by the stadium’s sound system. At this point, Hermione wasn’t sure who had a greater blush - herself or the referee unfortunate enough to be assigned to this match. Crookshanks readied himself with a proud roar and Fleur’s Altaria tittered in place as the ref took a moment to check that both trainers had finished their impromptu public flirting. 

“Hermione Granger of Galar versus Fleur Delacour of Kalos! Ready yourselves, _Begin!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is courtesy of three crazy ladies over from the Fleurmione discord. Literally walked into a huge discussion over what kind of Pokemon Hermione and Fleur would have and it got my brain running laps in my head over it. 
> 
> Translations for random french phrases used:  
>  _Tu est trop mignon pour les mots_ : You are too cute for words!  
>  _Ma Petite Flame_ : My little flame
> 
> As always, if my trash attempt at french is wrong, feel free to correct me! I'll happily fix it. Thanks to Edelethe for helping me with what little French I _do_ attempt. :D


	3. Soup is Where the Home is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione's crusade for social justice is waylaid by tea, a blonde, and some soup. In that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gift for Kamaro0917.

“... and tickle the pear… there!” The little painted fruit _giggled_ before the passageway behind the picture frame clicked open like a door. The giddy feeling that Hermione felt after she had coaxed the location and means of entry to the kitchens from the Weasley Twins hadn’t faded yet. This was finally her chance to talk to several House Elves! To think that Hogwarts would go as far as to cover up their involvement in this horrific practice of blatant enslavement that even her beloved _Hogwarts: A History_ had excluded the mention of its most prolific staff! 

Hermione honestly felt slighted by the oversight of her favorite book. That, coupled with how _little_ anyone else cared about the obvious plight of another magical race left a terrible after taste in her mouth every time she looked at her well made bed or the otherwise delicious food served in the Great Hall every day. 

Well, if no one else wanted to push the values of S.P.E.W., then Hermione would do it all on her own. 

Within moments, the determined Gryffindor had entered the kitchens and soon found herself a little overwhelmed. In the two seconds that she had managed to take in the massive culinary prep space, she had found herself soon surrounded by a few dozen of the foreign denizens. 

“Oh! A student!”

“Is Miss hungry?”

“Tea! Gets the Tea!”

“Lunch is soon, but cakes are ready!”

“Would Miss like some snacks?”

Before the overwhelmed brunette could get a word in edgewise, she was shuffled off to a table in a quaint little corner with a piping hot cup of Earl Grey and a few tea cakes. For a race of what she originally thought to be subservient people, they were certainly a forceful bunch. Her original plan to regale the Elves with a speech on basic rights and freedoms had been waylaid and now she wasn’t quite sure where to go from there. Instead, Hermione glanced about the kitchens as she sipped at her tea and noted that there was some level of organization to be found in the chaos of their apparent pre-lunch prep. There were even four tables to mirror the ones in the Great Hall, already ladened with whatever food and drink that had been whipped up by the various elven chefs in the room. 

It was this orchestra of movement throughout the space that allowed her to see the one other quiet area other than her own. Nestled off in her own corner of the kitchens was a familiar head of ethereal blonde hair, hunched over what looked to be several ingredients and a cutting board. The French Tri-Wizard competitor had her sole focus on the knife, her movements noticeably slow but they were at least sure in their movements. So much so that it was likely that she hadn’t even noticed the unconscious way her tongue stuck out in concentration. 

For Fleur Delacour, it was a look that simultaneously undignified and humbled her. 

Hermione could only stare unabashed in her awe of the image across the room. In the two months that the French witch had been here, the Gryffindor had only heard the woman complain about every little thing that had upset her about her new environment. Fleur constantly nattered on about how _‘the school was too dreary!’_ ; the students were _‘uncultured and crass’;_ and her most frequent complaint - _‘the food is far too heavy here, I don’t know how anyone can stand this!’_

It had annoyed Hermione to no ends. How dare this supposed _guest_ criticize the place that had given the brunette so much purpose, her _home away from home_ , with such snide remarks? Hermione had written off the blonde as yet another spoiled, air headed fool stuck in their ways. Much like Malfoy and his ilk, the muggleborn had no time to entertain such idiots. 

Except that supposed _‘air head’_ was in the midst of cooking by herself… the muggle way. That in and of itself was enough to cause her to reevaluate the French Witch. While Hermione had only spent three, nearly four years in the magical world so far, she had been witness to Molly Weasley’s expert command of all things cooking. That woman wielded a wand like a baton for the _Royal Philharmonic Orchestra_. Even the various House Elves in the room allowed their magic to do most of the prep as they cooked for the hundreds of denizens within Hogwarts’ halls. 

Hermione watched from afar for a few more minutes before she found herself a few lengths closer. While her colors were red and gold, her inquisitive nature nearly landed her in the eagle’s tower instead. It was her brash nature that led her to never hide that fact about her that attributed to her actual sorting. 

“What are you making?”

_"Putain!_ ” Fleur dropped her knife on the wooden board as she clutched her chest in surprise. Her eyes were wide and panicked as she took in the curly haired girl that had somehow snuck up on her. “Who sneaks up on someone wielding a knife?!” 

The words nearly slurred together in her haste, the french accent heavy as it hindered her attempts at the foreign tongue. Hermione sheepishly raised her hands in a way that she hoped placated rather than offended. 

“Sorry! I just… hadn’t expected to see anyone else here. I saw you cooking and I got curious. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you, I promise.” 

The blonde narrowed her eyes in suspicion at the supposed interloper before she picked up the knife and resumed her attempts to dice the carrots in front of her. “It is… quite alright.” The rhythmic sound of the knife as it hit the wooden surface each time repeated for a few moments more before Fleur quietly murmured. “If you must know, I am making _Soupe au Pistou_.”

Hermione’s eyes lit up at the name of the familiar dish. She noted the way the other girl surreptitiously looked at the letter to her right, and even from where she stood she could tell it was a handwritten recipe. “Are you from the south of France then?” 

Fleur’s head bolted up in surprise as she stared at the clearly English Witch. “ _Oui_ , I am… how did you know?” 

Hermione blushed a little, but even that could not curb the elation in her gut at being right. 

“Oh, my parents and I usually go to France every summer. My grandparents are over there, so we make a point to see them as much as we can. And I tend to see that dish more in the South of France than anywhere else.” The words just gushed out before Hermione could even think to filter herself. Harry and Ron never really took the time to ask about her summer, or her family, and sometimes it was nice to just talk about them. Thankfully, it didn’t seem like Fleur minded the stream of babble if the small smile on her face and the loss of tension in her shoulders were any indication. “Oh, I’m sorry again. I’m being terribly rude - I’m Hermione Granger.” 

She held out her hand in greeting, and Fleur looked at her for a moment before she closed in and air kissed Hermione on the left and right cheeks. 

“Fleur Delacour, and the pleasure is mine.” She smirked at the younger girl’s bright flush. _‘Oh, this one is cute.’_

Hermione never did get to really talk with the House Elves that day. It was only after she and Fleur had left the kitchens, both full with a delicious out of season soup and wonderful conversation that she had realized this fact. Instead, she reasoned she could get the perspective of someone who had grown up with two nanny elves at home. And if it helped the homesick French witch to talk about her family life, then Hermione was more than happy to let Fleur keep talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned previously, this one is a gift to Kamaro0917 for her birthday! The prompt given to me was basically "can I get Hermione stumbling on Fleur as she stress cooks/bakes?" 
> 
> I basically pictured Fleur trying to recreate a dish from home after the feeling of homesickness got to be too much. Magic is nice and all, but there's something about hand making everything yourself which is comforting. At least, I'd like to think so. Hermione in this story at least agrees.
> 
> Also, shout out to Edelethe, who was kind enough to help me with the little french phrases! _"Putain"_ in this case is just an expletive, similarly to how we in english use "shit!" and "crap!" among other things.


	4. Play me a Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is a perfectionist, but Fleur shows her that being _imperfect_ is the most human thing she can be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gift for StrayPuppy.

Hermione threw a baleful glare at the book in front of her. It was normally against her very character to be so angry at any tome or text, but she couldn’t find it within herself to care at this moment. Alongside her usual swot like tendencies, Hermione was a habitual perfectionist no matter what the subject was. She had even secretly gone out to the Quidditch shed just to work on her  _ flying _ after that disastrous first class. Not that she ever told Ron or Harry that, Heaven forbid that those two so much as think that she  _ liked _ the pastime. 

No, Hermione did not suffer lackluster results.

Even if it was in a subject that eluded and frustrated her as much as  _ this _ did. 

The Gryffindor took a breath to steady herself, flicked the metronome back into a steady beat, and curled her fingers over the ivory keys for what seemed like the thousandth time that hour. The notes that escaped the beautiful baby grand piano sounded stilted and unsure as they echoed about the stone walls of the empty classroom she had borrowed for this very occasion. The chords were all in  _ Major _ but rather than happiness or enthusiasm, they felt forced and out of place with every measure she played. The music grated on her ears and she was so very tempted to slam her hands down to echo her growing frustration but instead forced herself to play until the final bar on the sheet music. 

Hermione finished the piece, but even with her untrained ear she could tell that what she just played couldn’t possibly have counted as  _ good _ . She just barely restrained herself from any violent attempts on the innocent instrument before her and instead settled for a muffled groan of disappointment into her palms. It was a good thing that she was stuck at Hogwarts for the Yule Ball, otherwise her poor grandmother would’ve been quite disappointed by what should’ve been her Christmas gift.

The studious girl could never claim to be musically inclined. Hermione had been subjected to Piano lessons since she was four, and like any subject presented to her she could claim a great understanding and technical proficiency thanks to hundreds of hours of practice and dedication. She could certainly play most pieces if you gave her the sheet music for it. She’s even managed the likes of  _ Chopin _ when it was requested of her. 

It just… sounded hollow. Like the notes were being played but the emotional tinge that so marked it as something played by a human was notably missing. Her instructor once likened her to one of those automated pianos; it could hit whatever key you told it to so long as you programmed the notes, but could it  _ really _ be called music when it so robotically churned it out? Eleven years of practice fine tuned her technique, but she could never quite let go enough to go further than rote memorization and it showed whenever she decided to subject anyone to her “playing.” 

That didn’t mean she stopped  _ trying _ though. Honestly if it wasn’t for her grandmother, Hermione would’ve likely dropped the lessons and the skill altogether. She just wasn’t one to disappoint, especially to one of her loved ones. 

“You’re not very good, are you?”

The brunette jumped and sat up as her head whipped towards the door. When she had previously had her face so firmly buried in her hands, it wasn’t a surprise that she hadn’t noticed the entrance of the uninvited individual who had intruded upon her practice space. Especially because she had warded the door! Hermione eyed the casually dressed Beauxbatons’ Champion with weariness and suspicion. 

“How did you get in here?” 

“I walked through the doorway,  _ obviously _ .” Fleur smiled and idly tapped the wand at her hip, the implication clear and practically unspoken to both of them.  _ ‘I took down your wards, and?’ _ Hermione huffed and angrily fidgeted with the metronome in front of her.

“Then you can  _ obviously _ walk right back out. This room is reserved for at least another hour.” 

There was an awkward moment of silence between the two before the distinctive  _ click clack _ of heels filled it, but rather than walk out the door, Hermione noted that they moved  _ towards _ her. Before she knew it, the blonde had stationed herself right behind her and had leaned forward to scrutinize the book of sheet music that Hermione had set up on the stand. 

“Excuse me, but I clearly said that I had this room for another-”

“Hour,  _ oui, _ I heard you. One hour, or ten - it does not matter. I do not think you will get the results you crave.” 

Hermione turned and glared at the other witch, her hands clenched so firmly that her knuckles had long since been painted white in her fury. 

“And what is  _ that _ supposed to mean?!” 

Fleur met her indignation head on with a smirk that only seemed to infuriate the brunette even more. 

“I think you know  _ exactly _ what I mean.” She nodded towards tightly fisted hands and then back towards the ivory and black keys. “Go ahead, show me otherwise.”

There was a part of Hermione that wanted to blow up at the older girl for her impertinence. Instead, that urge was overshadowed by the pride that always seemed to live at the very back of her mind. It was an unhealthy  _ need _ to prove her worth to every naysayer that crossed her path. It was this that prompted her to turn her focus back on the instrument in front of her as she adjusted the metronome back to the tempo appropriate for the time signature she was working on. Within moments her fingers moved across the keys in the same methodical drudgery she had managed for the last hour. 

The singularly focused girl nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt the slight weight of the French witch as she idly draped herself over the brunette. Her arms and hands were almost superimposed over Hermione’s own as she mirrored those curled fingers.    
  


“Wait, what are you-” Hermione nearly leapt off the seat as she sputtered at the intrusion into her personal bubble. Instead she was frozen in place by the breathy giggle that tickled her ear, Fleur was  _ that _ close to her. 

“Nevermind that, keep playing.” Unnerved yet Hermione did as she was told and continued where she left off. As she played another measure, she could feel as well as hear the hum of contemplation from the body behind her. While Fleur had yet to touch the keys herself, she was not immobile as her fingers performed above Hermione’s own. They seemingly played the same notes, but the brunette could tell that while her own digits dutifully did as they were told, Fleur’s  _ danced _ . The older girl only deviated for a moment to wave her left hand at the oppressive device that dictated their timing and froze it on the spot. 

Hermione nearly jolted to a stop herself at the casual display of wandless magic but elegant digits brushed against her own and compelled her to continue. She had to consciously remind herself to  _ breathe _ because she was afraid that the lithe body pressed against her own would make her forget herself so thoroughly that she risked accidental self inflicted asphyxiation. The digits that twirled and brushed the tops of her extremities were skilled and sure as they unintentionally sent the young lion’s thoughts into a tailspin. They represented a near impossible dichotomy with their gentle, feather-light touches that were at odds with the hard calluses permanently etched into alabaster skin. 

It was only by the sheer virtue of muscle memory that Hermione managed to get to the end of the piece, because she can honestly say that her mind had given up any and all attempts to focus on the music mere moments after Fleur decided to “aid” her. And even after they had seemingly finished, the blonde made no attempts to disengage herself from the overly familiar position she had placed them into. 

“ _ Hmm _ , see? That was so much better than before, could you not agree?” The french accent was never something that ever deterred Hermione before, but right at that moment it took everything in her to focus on the words. 

“I…” To be honest, Hermione couldn’t exactly remember most of what they just did. It might have had something to do with the fact that she was so hyper focused on the body that had casually melded itself to her own for the last five minutes. “I… have to be honest. I don’t exactly remember.” 

She also couldn’t remember the last time she had blushed so hard. Hermione couldn’t see herself right now, but she could  _ feel _ the rush of blood as it flooded her cheeks. It intensified as she could sense the smile that had formed on Fleur’s face, likely due to their continued proximity.

“That is good! You are capable, but you must learn to think less when you play.” Fleur went and caressed one of the keys in front of them, and the electrifying touch continued even as it went from ivory to olive skin. “If nothing else, you must see the instrument like one does a lover.”

“A  _ lover?!” _ Forget thought, Hermione was sure that her dignity died as her mortification grew in leaps and bounds. The older girl seemed oblivious to the British Witch’s internal panic as she nodded her affirmations. 

“Yes! Treat her right, and she will voice all of her  _ passions _ beautifully. Shall I continue to show you how?” 

If Hermione was just as robotic of a pianist as her instructor claimed her to be, then surely her brain had short circuited and fried itself more than a dozen times over by now. Not that Fleur noticed, she just continued to coax such a  _ passionate reaction _ out of her intended target. 

Oh and she played the piano too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for StrayPuppy! Happy belated Birthday! For this one, she requested something along the lines of "something music related." Another user on the Fleurmione discord had also just recently gone off on a tangent amount "hands" so I literally couldn't help but fixate on it here. 
> 
> Also, I seem to live for putting Hermione through situations where she ends up hilariously panicked. It's okay, she'll live. She just needs to reboot a few times. xD


	5. Dancing Bears and Painted Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a con artist needs to lie to themselves, then the game is done. Too bad no one told Fleur that...
> 
> An Anastasia AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to "the_glare_you_see" - who shares my immense love for musicals and inappropriately timed dance breaks.

“Horace! Is she ready yet?” The jovial man chuckled as he adjusted his cravat. The beautiful, yet clearly aggravated blonde scowled at her rotund companion and his far too relaxed attitude. “This is no laughing matter! She is to meet with the Dowager Empress tonight, literally everything we have worked towards rides on her!” 

“Oh relax Fleur, we have plenty of time!” Horace continued to fidget with his clothing. They were in muggle attire for the night since they were to meet with the Dowager Empress at the ballet. But a lack of proper robes was no excuse to look shabby! “Besides, if you’re so worried then maybe you should check on our  _ Princess _ yourself.” 

Since he had not even deigned to turn away from the mirror for the entirety of their short discussion, Fleur hadn’t bothered to gratify him with a response. The French witch instead went to the other side of the suite they had managed to obtain through Slughorn’s various connections and knocked on the door. 

“‘Ermione? Everything alright in here?” There was a sudden crash from within and the sound of muffled cursing had managed to breach the sturdy wooden barrier that separated them. “ _ Merde _ . I’m coming in!” 

Fleur swiftly opened the door and slid inside. It was only after she had locked the door behind her that she had allowed herself to look up and survey the room. Which in hindsight was a smart move on her part - there was no reason to allow that fool Horace to see her jaw drop in such an unrefined way that it did. 

Hermione sheepishly attempted to smooth out the slight wrinkles in her dress as she attempted to strategically place herself in front of the settee. Even with the distraction of dark blue silk intimately wrapped around a delicate figure, Fleur was still able to make out the corner of a familiar tome haphazardly hidden behind a single throw pillow. The French witch made a point to force her eyes away from the hint of delicious olive skin that peeked out between the single slit on the side of the dress. She mentally berated herself as her mind decided to take the scant inches provided as a preview and made a full fledged mental movie that starred toned yet deceptively soft legs often covered by an array of not-quite-modest dresses. 

Sometimes the part-Veela wondered if this is what went through most men’s minds when they walked by those with her creature inheritance. If so, then she owed a great deal of them an apology. 

Last she checked the brunette in front of her was  _ human, _ but It still took an extra moment before Fleur managed to school her features and silence her overactive imagination. She stepped forward in what she  _ hoped _ was her usual confident gait and approached the young woman currently wracked with nerves.

Clad in a navy blue dress that left little to the imagination with the way it hugged her slight curves and an array of carefully transfigured jewelry, Hermione was a far cry from the beleaguered young woman they had found in Russia so many months ago. Even the frizzy mop of hair that Fleur herself had claimed to be impossible to tame was gently coaxed into an elaborate updo of curls and elegance. If Hermione herself hadn’t busied herself with the various wrinkles in her attire, Fleur wouldn’t have noticed the perceived imperfections.

No, she would’ve been too fixated on the rush of affection that threatened to overcome her with every one of the younger woman’s nervous smiles. 

Fleur expertly schooled her own features so that they perfectly hid the mess that hid within her own head and raised a single teasing brow at her companion. 

“What tome distracted you tonight?  _ ‘Unobtrusive Pixies and their uses in Herbology’? _ Or was it  _ ‘Lores and Tradition: The story of Koldovstoretz’ _ yet again?” Her tone had a surface level of chiding but her eyes surely gave away the teasing nature of her question. Hermione in turn blushed a pretty shade of red that blended well with the soft color of her sun kissed cheeks.

Fleur subtly bit the abused flesh of the inside of her own cheeks.  _ ‘Control yourself, Delacour!’ _

“Ah, I’m sorry Fleur. I was just so nervous that I  _ had _ to distract myself a little bit.” Oblivious to the thoughts that warred within the French witch’s mind, Hermione tentatively grabbed the book that she had immersed herself in just a few minutes prior and showed it to Fleur. The gold lettering that adorned the cover was slightly worn, which betrayed its used nature but the words  _ ‘Hogwarts: A History’  _ were still quite prominent. “I know that reading about the various schools is a little ridiculous, considering that I’m far too old to attend  _ any _ of them at this point but…” 

_ Orphan. Streetrat. Poor. Mudblood.  _

The brunette hadn’t bothered finishing her sentence and had let the unspoken words speak for themselves. In all of the time that Fleur had known the spirited girl in front of her, Hermione had always been a brilliant beacon of optimism and hope. Pride and stubbornness were her only constant companions in the face of Russia’s attempts to crush her otherwise. The white knuckled grip on the worn tome betrayed the insecurities that hid under the surface of her usual stalwart veneer. 

Fleur deftly maneuvered her hands so they covered Hermione’s own as she worked to peel the anxious digits away from the abused leather that tethered the book together. 

“Any of the schools would have been lucky to have such a brilliant witch such as yourself attend. In fact…” A quick wave of her wand was all she needed to coax the transfiguration into place. Navy blue easily shifted into a familiar powder blue as the dress shortened and tailored itself to an outfit that Fleur herself had worn for seven years. “I think you would have loved  _ Beauxbatons _ .” 

“Fleur! We’re supposed to be getting ready!” It was hard to take the admonishment seriously when it was followed so closely by a peal of laughter. The sound softly petered out as long, dexterous fingers melded themselves to the soft cheeks that remained surprisingly unmarred by the harsh hand that life had dealt them. 

“And  _ you _ are supposed to believe in yourself.” Hermione leaned into the comforting warmth of the older woman’s palm. “I certainly believe in you.”

“Do you really think she’ll recognize me?” Evocative brown eyes peered up at her, the orbs a reflection of fears and inadequacies several years in the making. Fleur felt something in her heart clench at the sight, and before she knew it she had pulled the petite brunette into her arms and crushed her so close that the Frenchwoman had felt Hermione’s ragged intake of breath before she had even heard it.

“The Dowager Empress would be a fool if she did not see the  _ princess  _ so obviously before her.” The temptation to bury her face in the sweet smelling chocolate curls tucked under her chin was so great that the part-Veela nearly allowed herself to succumb. Instead she carefully separated from the polished beauty before her as she simultaneously let the transfigured school robes revert back to tailored blue silks and impossible promises. “I promise, she will love you, Hermione.”

_ I love you. _

The words crawled up her throat, but Fleur forced them to die before they even so much as hit her tongue. Instead she smiled and allowed hollow words to fill the air as she coaxed the previously undiscovered princess into a state of mellow relaxation that she herself couldn’t feel. Before long, the newly encouraged young witch had been sent off to Horace for some last minute preparation.

The moment the door to the side room had shut and Fleur was alone she had felt the false bravado leave her. She soon collapsed onto the settee that Hermione herself had previously occupied. The blonde resisted the urge to curl her fingers into her hair in frustration, and only succeeded because she had grabbed the previously abandoned  _ ‘Hogwarts: A History’  _ instead.

The woman had never felt so much kinship with a used book before. To feel so loved and cherished for the briefest of moments, only to be abandoned for something bright and new. Fleur felt like such a fool, she had meant to be the person who had done the impossible when she had vowed to con royalty. 

Instead she had fallen in love with the  _ Grand Duchess Anastasia.  _

“Oh Hermione, I guess you were always the better thief.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as I was chugging away at my entries for Fleurmione Week 2020, I realized that I hadn't actually posted for August. 
> 
> Oops. 
> 
> Thankfully I had been playing around with the idea of an Anastasia AU so I wasn't panicking _too_ hard about this. Granted I'm not too happy with this either, but I'd like to consider this a teaser for the day I finally do delve into this story line. I grew up watching the animated movie, and I was fortunate enough to see Anastasia on Broadway (twice!) so this is definitely a universe I'd like to expand upon. The idea of a scrappy Hermione and con artist Fleur is too good to pass up! 
> 
> Let me know in the comments if this appeals to anyone else, and maybe I'll work at it after I finish panic writing my Fleurmione week stuff. xD


	6. The Edge of Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione hadn't even wanted to go out for Halloween. The last thing she needed to be doing is walking through the woods in the middle of the night. 
> 
> Things, after all, go bump in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween!

The various groups of people clustered around the many bonfires set up were loud as they mingled with friends and strangers alike. The music was surprisingly deafening and encompassing in spite of the fact that it emanated from the somewhat dated speaker system that was courtesy of the surrounding campgrounds. And the alcohol flowed in excess in nearly every cup and willing blood stream in the vicinity. The annual Halloween Mixer set up by the Delta Nu sorority was always one of the most popular parties thrown at Hogwarts University, and it was an almost universal success with the student population.

Hermione hated it. 

Though to be fair to the majority of the brunette’s contemporaries, it wasn’t  _ her _ idea to come to this social event. In fact, when presented with the choice to socialize at all tonight Hermione had whole heartedly refused her friends’ invitation. Then she found out that “choice” was an illusion and she was being forced to leave her warm and comfortable dorm to deal with her age mates whether she wanted to or not. 

Hence why the normally studious political science major was standing in the middle of a clearing in the woods, a half empty red solo cup in her hands and a fierce glare for any fool who attempted to forcefully join her company. A quick glance around the clearing showed Harry, Ron, nor Ginny anywhere near her. 

_ 'So much for a night out with friends.’ _ The brunette snorted into her cup as she started to aimlessly walk away from some of the more rambunctious party goers. The event had apparently been planned so that the full scope of the party stretched all throughout the campgrounds that Delta Nu had secured for the night of revelry. Her three more extraverted friends likely just wandered off to one of the other bonfires or open cabins to explore. 

Hermione grudgingly opted to do the same and ducked into the woods soon after. If she had any say in the matter, she would’ve left already but Harry had been her ride here and she didn’t even know where her bespectacled friend  _ was _ . Not that it mattered at the moment. The brunette surmised she’d find at least  _ one _ of her friends sooner, rather than later. 

It was too bad that she was the only one with a cell phone of the four of them, otherwise this would’ve been a lot easier. 

The brunette pushed all thoughts of irritation to the back of her mind as she trudged through the forest. From what she could remember of the map she had seen earlier, the entire campsite was quite circular in design. Hermione figured if she was at one end of the camp and just walked straight through the trees then she would logically make it to either the property walls or another major hub filled with partiers. 

In her head the idea was well thought out, but the unease she felt as the sounds of chatter and revelry just faded away the further she walked did little to reassure her. Instead, the unnerved woman focused on her boots as she maneuvered through the various snags hidden in the forest floor with an unnecessary amount of dedication. 

Hermione would later blame the single minded focus on her footwear for the way she jumped when the sounds of laughter reached her. After she saved herself from gravity’s attempt to introduce her to the floor, the normally reserved intellectual frantically scoured her surroundings for the source of the noise. 

There was no one around her. 

At least, none that she could see. Then again, she had been foolish enough to attempt to wander the woods without an active light source. When she had been by the other party goers, the lights from the other bonfires on the other side of the woods seemed so bright that the brunette was sure that she would’ve been able to follow any of them like an easy to spot beacon. 

Instead, it was eerily dark. The bright red solo cup she had been holding only seconds earlier had even been lost to the shadows. No matter the direction she craned her neck, there wasn’t a single light in sight. Or person for that matter.

But the sourceless laughter continued. 

Even when the sound of her heartbeat picked up and the panic began to build up within her, the decidedly feminine voice still creeped into her ears. The analytical portion of her mind likened the sound to a melodic set of porcelain bells. Any other time or circumstance would have made the unexpected acoustics a thing to be admired, rather than the current soundtrack to her terror. And it didn’t even come from any particular direction! It echoed around the frenzied young woman like an annoying swarm of gnats that she couldn’t quite swat away. 

So it was no wonder that Hermione hadn’t noticed the person behind her until the hand had landed on her shoulder. 

This time her butt didn’t miss the opportunity to meet the ground as the sound of her scream of surprise finally overrode the taunting cackles around her. In her flurry to get away from the unexpected individual that had invaded her personal bubble, Hermione found herself looking up at an unusual sight. 

Stood in front of her was a beautiful, lithe blonde in what looked to be leather britches and what could more accurately be described as a  _ tunic _ than a more modern blouse. To her knowledge, the brisk fall night had discouraged many from attempting to dress up for the event, so most of the other party goers opted for outer gear better suited for a night in the woods. Hermione herself had on a warm peacoat. 

The woman in front of her on the other hand didn’t seem at all bothered by the thin material that did nothing to discourage the chill. In fact, the white fabric of her top only seemed to make the mysterious figure all the more ethereal when put against the dark backdrop of her surroundings. 

“Are you alright?” 

Hermione blinked as she realized that the inquiry had come from the blonde in front of her. The voice hinted at a foreign accent, something decidedly _not_ typical British fair but her harried mind refused to hone in on what it could be. The pointed look from the unusual woman made the brunette realize she hadn’t actually answered the question.

“Oh, I’m - I’m alright. Just a bit frazzled I think.” She tried to put as much conviction into her voice as she said that, but the normally calm and composed student couldn’t seem to tame her nerves. The feeling in her gut that screamed at her that something  _ wasn’t quite right _ deepened and it was taking everything in her power to not give in to her fear. And when the ethereal…  _ creature _ in front of her took a step in her direction, Hermione scrambled backwards. The blonde stopped for a moment to appraise the smaller woman still on the floor before she sent a predatory smirk at the terrified individual before she continued her stride. 

“S-Stay away!” Hermione didn’t know why she was trying to put space between her and whomever this was, but instinct was the very  _ soul _ of human nature. And right now it screamed that this woman in white was not  _ human _ at all. Not that the other relented in her approach, and it came to no one’s surprise that in Hermione’s refusal to lose sight of her pursuer the brunette had eventually backed herself up against a rather thick tree. With it against her back, she eventually pushed herself back onto her feet. 

It didn’t help, especially when Hermione realized that the blonde was still a good foot taller than her. And now that she couldn’t readily move backwards, the distance between the two shrunk faster than the panicked woman could convince her body to run away. 

“Stop! Damn it, _Fleur don’t come near me!”_ _That_ put a stop to the predatory figure’s approach. Hermione on the other hand froze with her hand over her mouth in surprise. _Fleur?_ Where did that name come from? It was clearly the other woman’s name, but how did the brunette know it? In the midst of her confusion and the torrent of questions that suddenly assaulted her mind, Hermione failed to realize that Fleur had finally closed the distance between them until she suddenly found herself trapped between the unfortunately placed tree and the otherworldly blonde in front of her. 

Fleur had gently moved the smaller hand that had blocked the smaller woman’s mouth from view with her own deft fingers as she stared intently upon her quarry. Blue eyes stared into brown as she searched for something, as if those wide orbs held secrets that even Hermione herself had not been privy to. That same hand came to perch on a soft olive toned cheek, and it was then that Hermione realized why the lithe beauty in front of her was so unbothered by the sharp chill around them.

Fleur’s touch was like molten fire on her skin, but no matter how much she wanted to flinch away, Hermione was frozen in place. And then either a few moments or a few lifetimes had passed, the brunette wasn’t sure, but the blonde finally deigned to speak.

“Do you remember me,  _ Hermione?” _ The question was taunting, but Hermione wanted to answer all the same. Of course she didn’t  _ remember _ this woman! They had never met prior to this moment. She wanted to scream this at the audacious figure in front of her, the denials just on the tip of her tongue. But she couldn’t do it. Every time the brunette went to voice her opinion, to give life to her words, blurry images assaulted her at every attempt.

_ Deft fingers that gently combed through riotous curls. _

_ Soft lips that have ventured and explored every inch of willing olive skin. _

_ Intense blue eyes that screamed a level of possessiveness that both filled her with love and terror in the same moment.  _

As if she could see the flood of fantastical scenes that seemed to burn themselves upon Hermione’s mindscape, Fleur smiled as she brought her face closer to the brunette’s own. 

“If you don’t, that’s fine then. I’ll just be sure to make it so you can’t forget me again.” So close to the other woman’s head, Hermione finally noticed the sharp angles of the blonde’s ears. They were pointed and accentuated in such a way that no human could ever hope to naturally replicate. A sharp tug at her chin forced the young woman to switch her focus from the non-human features to eyes blown out so much from desire that they appeared black. 

“Because I’m not letting you go,” At this point Fleur’s lips were scant inches from Hermione’s own. The smaller woman shook, but the blonde’s grip was on the border of bruising and she had no chance of escape. “ _ ever again!” _

It was when forceful lips had crashed against her unwilling ones that Hermione’s frantic mind screamed out. Her need for answers in the face of her helplessness forced her to rapidly sort through the influx of confusing images that waged war with her consciousness. When the very edges of her vision had begun to tint with blackness, a single blurry moment  _ (memory?) _ had slotted itself before her.

_ Like the other moments of time forced upon her, there was no sound to highlight the scene. Just a blur of movement and emotion that barely made sense. The only thing she could make out was bloodied Fleur, screaming for her at the forest’s edge. The ethereal beauty was unexpectedly disheveled in her appearance, her attire sullied with earth and her own lifeblood. She clawed at an invisible wall, but it held in spite of her obvious attempts to cross over.  _

_ There was no sound, but there was no mistaking the look of desperate pleas. The name,  _ Hermione, _ mouthed out over and over again like a shout of pain each time.  _

_ And the originator of the memory took one last glance at the blonde before she turned around and… walked away. _

Hermione came back to herself just in time to lament one last thought before she blacked out.

_ What had she done? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Slightly spooky one-shot done! I honestly had three other one-shots planned instead of this one, but I decided to go completely off script and write this one instead. Thanks to Midmoon Kitsune and "the_glare_you_see" for looking this over for me and helping me with some rough patches at the last moment. Depending on interest (both my own and the audience) I may continue this. We'll see. :P
> 
> Happy Halloween!


	7. We Dream of Electric Sheep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original Prompt: 
> 
> His gaze was piercing as he scanned each and every one of them through the cell bars. “Where is she?”
> 
> “Who?” One of them sneered. 
> 
> “You know who I mean. Where is she?”

There was an underlying murmur that echoed about the stone walls. It made the feeling of being cramped all the more profound as Fleur made her way down the unsettling hallway. Not surprising, considering that she was currently traveling amongst the British Ministry’s holding cells. The French witch had herself disillusioned so as not to immediately garner the attention of the various occupants in their cramped confinements. Further and  _ further _ she walked, with not even a glance spared at any of the cells that she had passed.

Finally, she stopped in front of a seemingly random set of bars. Like many of the others, this temporarily housed a variety of people - all being detained as they awaited their judgements for whatever petty crimes they had done to warrant their arrest. There were no future  _ Azkaban _ inmates here. Just some drunks, a few terrible pickpockets, and the occasional con-artist that attempted to dip their toes in  _ Knockturn Alley. _

And… 

Her gaze was piercing as she scanned each and every one of them through the cell bars.

“Where is she?”

“Who?” One of the more unruly drunks sneered back at the partially camouflaged figure. Now that she had made herself known, it was easier to see her silhouette, though her true features were still hidden from their prying eyes. “Cowards who hide behind stupid tricks don’t get to ask no questions here! Or are you too ugly to show your mug, huh girly?” 

With an audible  _ tsk,  _ the illusion spell was dropped and almost as one she could see that nearly every one of the stupid idiots inside had dropped their jaws and a few of them had even turned purple. Fleur Delacour rolled her eyes as her thrall flicked out and teased a few of the more susceptible individuals. It’s like these fools had never seen a  _ Veela _ before. 

“Let’s try this again. Where is she?” 

The group’s unofficial spokesman flapped his jaw a few times fruitlessly, but he eventually managed to force his words through his malfunctioning vocal chords. 

“Er… uh… sorry, who?” He flinched back from the wrought iron bars at the blonde’s sharp glare.

“You know who I mean.  _ Where. Is. She?!” _ The previously surly man was a largely built Irish wizard that easily stood a whole head taller than the woman across from him, but even he gulped at each pause of the word. He was less enthralled by her looks and more terrified for his balls at this point as he turned back towards the corner of the cell where a number of his mates had clustered together. 

“Damn, sorry girly. You were right, she’s a bloody scary one she is.” Almost as if he had given permission to leave their posts, three of the other cellmates shifted out of their positions as human barricades to reveal a singular figure previously hidden in the corner of the room. 

Order of Merlin First Class. Brightest Witch of her Generation. One of the most accomplished  _ Unspeakables _ currently stationed in the Department of Mysteries. 

“Hermione Jean Delacour-Granger! I  _ demand _ to know why I got a floo-call at three in the morning to bail you out of jail!” 

… And a thousand percent in trouble with the love of her life. Hermione groaned into her hands. She knew she was in trouble when her wife of ten years started losing control of her previously diminished French accent. 

“I… um… would you believe me if I said that it was an honest, drunken accident?” 

“A massive, magically enhanced sheep breathing out lightning in Diagon Alley was a  _ drunken accident?! Tu te fous de moi?!” _

Oh shit, and now the actual French was broken out. 

“Fleur,  _ Love, _ I-” 

“Give me  _ one _ reason why I shouldn’t use a permanent sticking charm to banish you to the couch for the rest of the month?” The angry  _ Veela _ interrupted whatever groveling was about to exit from her little brunette’s panicked mouth with a stern look that  _ screamed _ ‘try me, do it I  _ dare _ you.’ Hermione did her best impression of a gaping fish before her self-preservation finally came through.

“It was Ron and Harry’s idea.” 

“Bloody hell, mate!” “Why are you dragging us into this?!” 

Both women turned their attention to the two thrown to the center of the room like sacrificial lambs. The rest of the ones in the cell were tightly packed together on the other side of the cell from Hermione, as if they had attempted to be as far out of sight of the annoyed blonde witch in case she felt like throwing hexes at her wife. They had apparently known  _ exactly _ who the brunette was throwing under the Knight Bus. Fleur in turn raised a singular eyebrow at the two other war heroes. The fact that the media touted “Golden Trio” was in these cells in the first place said a lot about the fiasco that had taken place.

“If you think for a second that I’m the only one here to lambast you three, you have got another thing coming.  _ Your _ wives are waiting for me to finish up. As they like to say now a days - they gave me  _ ‘first dibs.’”  _

  
At that, the three saviours of Wizarding Britain groaned. They were in  _ so _ much trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entry is courtesy of a fabulous tumblr blog called [givethispromptatry](https://givethispromptatry.tumblr.com/post/637124060763111425/his-gaze-was-piercing-as-he-scanned-each-and-every). Their blog is filled with numerous prompts, and I know that I'll be borrowing a few more before long!
> 
> I probably won't give a further explanation of what exactly went down to get Harry, Hermione, and Ron arrested. I feel like it's more fun to just imagine the drunken shenanigans that ensued. 
> 
> Also a big thank you to the lovely people over at the Fleurmione discord server who helped me with the bit of French. 
> 
> _Tu te fous de moi?_ \- "Are you messing/kidding with me?"


	8. Pen Thieves and Pulling Pigtails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headmistress McGonagall loved her job, she really did. 
> 
> She just needed to keep reminding herself of that while she yelled at two fools.

Professor McGonagall glared at the two shivering witches that sat before her in her office. Under normal circumstances, she would have taken one look at their drenched forms and would have dried them in a heartbeat with a simple flick of her wand. But  _ no, _ after the ridiculous display that afternoon she would let them stew in the consequences of their frankly immature actions and if that meant there was a sizable puddle of lake water in the center of her office for a little bit,  _ so be it. _ She even had both their wands on top of her desk to ensure that they wouldn’t dry themselves before she was done with them.

“... an unsolicited duel in the halls, a flagrant exchange of downright  _ petty _ magic, a disruption to the school day, and not to mention a case of violence so patently immature that I’m surprised that neither of you actually pulled at each other’s hair!” 

It was bolstering to her ego that even after all these years, she could still make two positively brilliant witches blush in shame and embarrassment after a thorough lecture. Not that Fleur or Hermione looked the part of  _ brilliant witch  _ at that moment - they gave off more of a  _ drowned rat _ impression right then. Minerva would have  _ loved _ to do anything else but yell at the two, but unfortunately circumstances meant that she was  _ literally _ the only person capable of doing this at the moment. Which reminded her…

“I should not have to put two grown women, much less members of my  _ STAFF _ in detention! Especially for something so embarrassingly juvenile! Now do either of you have  _ anything _ to say for yourselves?!” 

Professor Delacour, her DADA professor of three years now, nodded though the shit eating grin on her face which only made the Headmistress dearly wish that she could imbibe in the stash of whisky hidden in the drawer by her leg. 

“Yes, I’d like to say that it was quite childish of  _ someone _ to tackle an innocent into the Black Lake.”

Minerva’s protegé sputtered in indignation and the Scottish witch found her hand already inching towards her liquor stash as if in anticipation for what was to come.

_ “Excuse me?!” _

“You are excused,  _ mon chérie.” _

It was at this moment that the Transfiguration Mistress was  _ immensely _ glad for the fact that Hermione’s animagus form was an otter and not, say, a  _ Hungarian Horntail _ because the curly haired witch looked to be about one step away from immolating her colleague. 

“For one thing, you are  _ far _ from innocent! We wouldn’t be in this mess if a  _ certain individual _ hadn’t made off with my quills!” 

Fleur merely smirked as she twirled a piece of hair, still wet from their brief involuntary swim and the audacious look was enough to cause little tendrils of static to run through the brunette’s hair in agitation.

“Oh  _ ma petite lionne, _ you are  _ so _ riled up over a few borrowed feathers.”

“A  _ few? _ Try all 172 of my various quills, pens,  _ and _ pencils! I have papers to grade, Fleur. And you know that the anti-fraud ink I use doesn’t work with transfigured quills!”

Before Fleur could rile Hermione further, Minerva interrupted them. 

“Enough! With the way that you two act, it’s a wonder that you’ve been married for ten years. I’d suggest therapy but I would hate to subject the poor mind healer to your surreal idea of foreplay.”

“Oh, that is  _ far _ from  _ foreplay _ for us.” Fleur waggled her eyebrows as her beloved wife proceeded to bury her face in her palms.

Their beleaguered boss already had the bottle of hundred year old Fire Whiskey out on her desk and a glass beside it, though she thoroughly contemplated skipping the glass and just drinking straight from the source.

  
“Get out of my office before I transfigure you  _ both _ into gerbils and chase you through the halls myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a hilarious scene I had partially written on a scrap piece of paper at work. 
> 
> In my head, Fleur and Hermione really do love each other here. But even though they've been married for ten years, I can still see the two of them having their childish and immature moments. So they'll mess with each other in good fun, and it's all mischief that can easily be solved with magick. 
> 
> Or in McGonagall's case, a bottle of Whisky. Poor woman gets another luxury bottle delivered by owl as an apology from both her subordinates, and you know - in anticipation for the _next time_ the two of them do something dumb.
> 
> Also, if anyone's curious as to why some one-shots get placed in "Flower Dance" and some are posted on their lonesome, here's the usual deciding factor: Scene breaks. If there's more than one scene change, it'll likely be a one-shot with longer more complicated pacing. "Flower Dance" entries tend to be short, with one continuous scene. I know that means that something like "Something Borrowed" should be an FD entry, but this is my criteria from now going forward. :P

**Author's Note:**

> Expect more of these drabbles for whenever I need a break from some of my bigger pieces. These will be more along the lines of "scenes out of context" and lack the usual build up and length that would normally make them a one-shot (at least for me.)


End file.
